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<title>The Rhythm We Share by ClydeThistles</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945885">The Rhythm We Share</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles'>ClydeThistles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Elder Speech, F/F, Flash Fic, Fluff, Poetic rhythm, Reading, Ripping off that scene from Sex Education, Yennaia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:00:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945885</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tissaia teaches Yennefer the poetry of Elder Speech.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Rhythm We Share</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yennefer’s heart sinks as she hears the click of the Rectoress’ heeled boots approach the bench in the greenhouse where she has been, unsuccessfully, trying to revive a bunch of ginatia petals. Her hands are slow to respond to commands, the tendons still weak after being severed. But it is the incantation that is baffling Yennefer most. The Elder is stumbling and coarse on her tongue, the multitude of syllables blurring into one incomprehensible string of sounds. And it is all the worse because, surely, learning Elder should be something she is good at. She is part-elf, it should be in her blood. The disappointed sigh and cold glare from Tissaia indicate she had expected more too, and Yennefer feels herself shrivelling as much as the dried flowers in front of her.</p><p>“Piglet. You never fail to confound my expectations. And it is never a pleasant surprise.”</p><p>Yennefer shifts ungainly and lowers her eyes but not before she sees the irritated flick of Tissaia’s hand at her.</p><p>“Come.”</p><p>The Rectoress sweeps through the corridors with her brisk, measured tread and her long skirts billowing. Yennefer trots to keep up, hopping like an animal with a sore paw. Her lungs are struggling with the exertion by the time they reach Tissaia’s study. Yennefer is familiar with the room she has been summoned on numerous occasions to be reprimanded. The desk is there in front of the arched window, dark and glossy, and Yennefer eyes it with distaste. She and this desk have a complicated relationship. It embodies everything she hates about Tissaia – the authority, the discipline, the tidiness, cold and hard. But it is also has a strange hold on Yennefer, she is drawn to it, her palms itching to run across its smooth surface, mouth eager to cloud its shine with misty breaths. And her back, for some godsforsaken reason, aches to stretch over it, to lie across it and feel the solidity of it beneath her.</p><p>“Piglet! What is so fascinating that you feel it warrants your undivided attention more than I?”</p><p>Yennefer flushes, wishing Tissaia would just hurry up and berate her, that is what always happens in this room. Which is why Yennefer is mystified when instead of sitting behind her desk, the Rectoress turns to her bookshelves and considers for a moment before selecting a slim volume. Is she going to hit her with it? Yennefer cannot think what else it is for. Not sparing Yennefer so much as a glance, Tissaia moves into the small side-chamber that is out of bounds to students and calls imperiously,</p><p>“Don’t dawdle, piglet.”</p><p>Yennefer tiptoes to the door and sees Tissaia has sat on one of the reclining sofas she favours, the book in her hand. She holds it out,</p><p>“Read. Out loud.”</p><p>Yennefer takes it and opens the cover, her stomach churning horribly when she sees it is all in Elder. She starts but knows it is awful, even to her ears it sounds grating and harsh. Tissaia frowns, pinching the bridge of her nose,</p><p>“Stop, stop! By all the gods, girl, it is not a list of ingredients! It is poetry, there is a rhythm to it. Listen.”</p><p>Not needing the book, Tissaia recites from memory. Yennefer feels something warm washing over her, the Rectoress’ voice is low and rich, rising and falling, her mouth curving round the words. Tissaia pauses and searches Yennefer’s face for any sign of comprehension and sighs.</p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>It is not the first time she has summoned Yennefer with those words, but they have never been said softly, without a cold edge. Yennefer approaches and, without being told to, kneels so that she is eye-level with Tissaia sat on the couch. Tissaia reaches out and places her hand against Yennefer’s chest, above her heart.</p><p>“Elder was written as the language of magic, of poetry, of music. It is built on the rhythms of our heartbeats; you cannot speak it without feeling it.”</p><p>Worried it will cost her a limb but unable to resist, Yennefer raises her hand to mirror Tissaia’s, placing it over the Rectoress’ heart. She feels the steady thud-thud under her palm and begins to recite, letting the words fall in time with Tissaia’s pulse. And it works. The words flow, they curl round her tongue, ribboning out into the air. Yennefer can feel something resonating in her bones, a connection to something older than time itself. The corner of Tissaia’s mouth lifts imperceptibly and she nods in satisfaction. She withdraws her hand and lays a cushion on the floor. Reclining and stroking her pendant, she instructs,</p><p>“Read to me.”</p><p>Yennefer settles herself on the cushion with her back against the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest and the book propped open on them. She reads and the words on the page start to sing, to paint pictures in her mind, to dance as her voice brings them to life. It is harder using her own pulse as a metronome because it rattles like a cart on cobblestones to begin with, but it settles as she eases in Tissaia’s presence. When she feels a hand lightly rest on her crown and stroke through her hair, Yennefer shivers in delight, the Rectoress’ fingertips combing in harmony with the lilt of the Elder. Yennefer’s voice is raw and her eyes bleary when she stops, the hand on her head has stilled and she looks up. Tissaia has drifted off, her chest rising and falling slightly, her mouth and eyebrows softened with sleep, little puffs of air stirring a wisp of hair that has escaped her bun. Yennefer turns to rest her cheek against the padded seat of the sofa and tentatively lays her hand across Tissaia’s free one that is nestled in the folds of her skirt. The Rectoress stirs but does not waken, the hand on Yennefer’s head pulling her closer. Yennefer smiles and shuts her eyes, letting the steady rhythm in Tissaia’s wrist that she can feel beneath her fingertips lull her to sleep.</p>
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